


In The End Was The Word

by BiJane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, potato chips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death and God: the two oldest beings known. In the end, even God will die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The End Was The Word

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a semi-joking ramble to a friend, and somehow ended up as a more serious story. I used the fan-theory that Chuck is God solely to have some grounds on which to give him a personality.

The last room in the universe: it didn’t really seem to be anything special. A couch, walls of bookshelves, a window, hasty wallpapering, a frayed carpet, and a desk and chair housing a man typing away. The windows, perhaps, were the strangest feature: they looked out into an infinity of nothing. No space, no light, and no darkness. No sound, no silence.

The man at the desk didn’t seem fazed by the impossible view. More than anything, he seemed focused on typing, occasionally reaching sideways; a messy pile of snacks lay beside the computer. Sometimes, he picked up a potato chip, or biscuit, and brought it up to his unshaven face.

Aside from the tapping of the keys, there was no sound.

“No one’s going to read it,” a man had appeared on the couch, sitting back, casual. “You of all people should know that.”

“Maybe,” Chuck said, writing a few more words, before turning around. “Maybe not. You can read.”

“We’ll see. Maybe I’ll cease to exist after this: what is Death with no life?”

“Out of a job,” Chuck threw a packet of chips across to the newcomer. “For a bit, at least. We always seem to adapt.”

“You adapt,” Death spoke, idly eating. “I’ve never had to.”

Chuck turned again. The click of keys, the crunching of potato chips. Death sat still, perfectly patient, perfectly neutral. His thin face might have been bored, or simply indifferent.

“I hate endings,” Chuck said eventually, sighing as he finished typing out a sentence.

“I’m not the person to talk to about that,” Death said. “I would suggest you do more with your remaining time than whine.”

“I know,” Chuck said, leaning back. “Beginnings were always my favourite though. Introduce things, people; make a world. Get people interested, you know? Endings, especially for good things, you need to wrap it up, wrap everything up, and somehow make it satisfying. Somehow, though, they never are. You always want more.”

“I can promise you, you won’t get more,” Death said, simply, perhaps an edge of impatience entering his voice. Chuck laughed, softly.

“Quite the comforter,” he smiled, amused. Death didn’t seem bothered.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m out of practise,” Death’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I rarely talk to those I reap.”

Briefly, Chuck returned to typing, pace slower, now. He wrote a few more sentences before, exhaling heavily, and tapping a few keys. Moments later, and the screen was blank, all his words deleted.

Death watched, wordless. The look on his oft-impassive face might have been curiosity, so far as the being was able to feel it.

“What is so important you feel the need to write it _now_?” Death spoke, the question almost reluctant. Chuck didn’t turn, as he answered, too focused.

“The last chapter,” he stared at the blank screen. “Written everything else, may as well finish off with this. Just don’t know what to say. Kind of a new feeling.”

A moment’s silence. Death didn’t speak. Chuck, wearily, managed to type a short sentence.

“It’s not easy,” he said, to the listening Death. “Ending things, I mean. Well, ending them properly. Easy to finish something: you’d know that. To do a decent ending, though, much trickier. Actually, that’s something you should know as well. How many people have you met that seemed completely satisfied to see you?”

“Leave it unfinished,” Death said, simply, after a moment. “It’s good enough for everyone else.”

“I guess,” Chuck said, almost reluctant. He fell silent, thoughtful.

Slowly, yet with a new air of purpose, Chuck deleted the little he’d written. After a few seconds of contemplation, his fingertips danced over the keys, writing a lone line. He smiled, clicked a button to print, and stood up.

The last chapter printed on a shelf. Chuck didn’t pick it up, instead walking over to the couch, sitting on a chair, closer to Death.

“How long?” Chuck said, eventually.

“You know that,” Death said. “You went human for too long. Do you really have to ask?”

“Guess not,” a chuckle. “Humour me.”

“Humour is hardly my department,” somehow, even with his voice cold as ice, Death didn’t seem quite detached. A moment later, and he relented: “Soon.”

“I’ll ask something I don’t know, then. Where do gods go when we die?”

Death didn’t reply. His lips quirked, slightly; posture adjusting, to better face Chuck.

“Think about it, though,” Chuck said. “Lived in heaven a fair bit, so couldn’t go there: even if it still existed. Same with hell, and purgatory. Nowhere obvious.”

Silence. Sighing, Chuck stood up, making his way toward the printer, and the last chapter.

“Feeling chatty huh?” Chuck spoke, reaching up for the sheet of paper. As soon as his fingers touched it, Death spoke.

“You’ll have to find out. I won’t spoil the surprise.”

Chuck turned, a little surprised, bringing down the last chapter as he frowned. “You know?”

“Of course _I_ know,” Death said, syllables prolonged, on the verge of mocking. “I’m Death. It’s my job.”

Weary, Chuck shut down his computer, as he walked back to the couch. The last chapter was left, unfolded, atop the lifeless machine.

_In the End was the Word, and the Word was_

Unfinished, as Death had suggested. It did seem almost fitting, to him; nothing ever really ended. Even if only because Death remembered it.

“So, how will we do this?” Chuck said, sitting down again. “Takes a touch, right?”

Death inclined his head: a nod. Chuck extended a hand, as if offering to shake, and Death shook his head, quiet.

“Not yet,” tone impassive, soft. Chuck’s hand dropped.

“One thing I hate more than endings,” he said, sighing, “Is the bit when it lags. Nothing interesting going on, for writer or reader.”

Death didn’t react. Silent, patient. After a few seconds, instinctively knowing the time had come, Chuck again offered his hand. This time, Death put down his potato chips, and took it.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he said, voice solemn, suddenly. Something that might have been a smile curled Death’s lips, and he nodded, once.

A flicker; then, smoothly, translucency seemed to pass through Chuck, from his hand, outward. He didn’t react, didn’t seem to notice, not even as his arm started to fade away.

“Goodbye,” Death spoke to his oldest companion, watching as what had once been God faded to nothing, and less than nothing. It felt, to him, like the first death that bore any meaning.  

The room still stood. Partially: part of it was already beginning to fade. Now alone, utterly alone, Death took a step toward the window, staring out, even as the rest of the last room vanished.

In the distance, so far as distance had any meaning in that void, in the very distance, a light was twinkling. Death watched it.

Nothing ever really ended. 


End file.
